


Dean Martin Day

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: 1950s, Alcohol, Anxiety, Celebrations, Childhood Friends, Comfort, Crying, Implied/Referenced Crossdressing, Internalized Acephobia, Kissing, Love, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Reunions, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: October 6th, 1950Dean's come back to Steubenville, Ohio, for the first annual Dean Martin Day and wishes he were anywhere else. A reunion with old friends does little to help.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 16





	1. Half-Familiar Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the dialogue, including Dean's interaction with Jiggs Rizzo, is taken from _Dino: Living High in the Dirty Business of Dreams_ by Nick Tosches.

_Christ_ but he wants it to be over. Just one day. One day, they said, but it feels like a year. A century. Hopes it doesn’t show too much. Jeannie beams. Constantly. It’s a miracle she can keep that smile in place. So perfect. Her job, of course. Perfect smile, perfect hair, perfect posture. Those Nazi eyes finding the camera. Never lets herself laugh too long or too hard. Holds back. Looks at him sometimes and he knows she’s loving him, supporting him somehow, but he can’t connect the dots too easy.

The kid’s loving it or seems to be. He mugs and screams and kibitzes. When they’re being interviewed out front, he gets bashful talking about Dean and comes crashing into his shoulder. It goes over big. Later, he shakes hands with Ape Head and in his own legitimate voice says, wonderingly, “I’ve heard about you. Never thought I’d be shaking your hand.” All those guys, all those crazy names Dean told the kid, suddenly real, living and breathing before him, and it’s a miracle the kid’s head doesn’t explode with all the jokes he could be making.

Dean watches him; it’s a little better this way, staying quiet, letting the kid take the lead. Nice, too, that he’s not so crazy with his friends. A little shy, maybe, meeting them all, these older fellas who knew Dean before. The kid’s eyes flick from these half-familiar strangers to his partner, a little hesitant, territorial. Dean touches his back, the nape of his neck, lets him know the score. The kid lets loose then and performs. Dean wonders, briefly, if one or more of them might say something – about Jerry, about the act, having seen the kid flirt and cling and try to kiss him – but everything works out. They’re just glad Dean mentioned them at all. They rib him a little, thought he might forget his old pals when he went Hollywood. No one even asks why Jerry’s come for his partner’s special day.

“Want I should go with you?” he asked when the invitation came through. And then, holding up his hands, “I know, I know, it’s _your_ day, not _ours_. I just mean if you want company. I’ll bring Patti, too. We’ll make a vacation of it. Be a little foursome.” He chuckled. “Like another honeymoon.”

Dean smiled. Remembered how well _that_ went down with Jeannie.

“Plus,” he went on, pacing, “we got a coupla shows in Chicago to do, so we’ll be together anyhow, and we gotta prepare for _Colgate_ comin’ up the week after, so we’ll have Eddie and Norm with us, too. Or is that too many people? Want us all there?”

“Can’t they figure out the scripts without you? Let ’em come to Chicago, sure, but how about just you’n me this time around?”

He thought for a moment. “That’ll work. So just you, me and the girls for Ohio?”

“Sure, pally,” he said, the easiest thing in the world. Hoping the gratitude showed on his face. And maybe it did, if the kid’s soft kiss on his mouth was anything to go by.

And now here they are. The motorcade and fanfare. A visit to Dean’s old school, wives in tow looking cute as buttons beside their famous husbands. So the press will say. Photo ops with Dean in a mortarboard, cane at the ready. He loves the kid for not making the obvious joke. Saw it twinkling in the corner of his eye, twitching on his lips. The lock on the Idiot’s cage rattling, holding for once. Later, Dean rests his head on the kid’s shoulder briefly while he half-jokingly kvetches about the food.

“All right, bubbe?” Stroking his cheek. People laughing around them, but they look at each other.

“Not yet. I’m gonna go to the parking lot, count the out-of-town licence plates.”

And he does leave for a moment on that wave of laughter. Needs at least one lungful of fresh air before another hour of this. The kid’s waiting for him just inside the door, steals a kiss and goes skipping back into the hall.

Then, at last, an out, a reason to go, and they’re winding down, Dean desperate to strip off and nap for a week, when his friends corral him. Mindy, Smuggs, Ape Head, Jiggs Rizzo, all of them, crowding, almost begging him to join them for a drink.

He wants to go with them and back home all at once. He looks to Jerry, Jeannie, Patti, ready and waiting.

“I don’t mind,” Jeannie says, perfect smile in place. “Have fun with your friends.”

“Sure, Dean. I’ll look after the girls.” Puffing out his chest, then deflating at the soft touch of Dean’s index finger.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he says, and Jerry pouts. Dean can almost feed the kid’s fingers itch for him, and there’s an aching kick in his chest as the three of them say goodbye, head back to the hotel.

Dean drinks for hours with old friends. Loud and raucous. Drowned in smoke and scotch and dirty jokes. It’s easier than he imagined. Slipping back into the old routine. His head spins in the din of the bar, and underneath the table his right leg judders, but up above he’s calm. Barely has to say anything, really. They ask and assume and poke and prod and he rolls his eyes or yells insults, tells them to fuck off, and they bray and bark laughter, slap his back. Needle him with comments. Steer clear of anything too close to home. Nothing about his partner. He figures they don’t care about him. Already forgot he exists. He remembers what they thought of performers. Singers, actors, all that vaudeville shit. Even Dean thought it. Must be sissies, preening and primping and getting made up. All except Crosby, of course. And Dean coming back a failure and throwing down his bags and ranting, raving at them. _Sissies? Ha! You try it and see who's the sissy then._ And he left again, ignorance exposed and dealt with, shown for what it truly was, and met a teenage boy who performed in a low-cut red dress, eyes rimmed with kohl and nails painted, and who seemed the furthest thing from a sissy Dean could imagine, vamping proudly before an indignant, uncomfortable and often violent crowd. He privately defied any of them to call _that_ sissy. Other words were tossed around. Closer, maybe, but not synonymous. And none of these fellas would dare say them to Dean's face now.

 _People like that are braver than any of us_ , he thinks, sipping scotch and tuning back into the conversation.

His old pals break off, return, and drift away into the smoky din alone or with a girl in tow. And then there are two: Dean and Jiggs sitting opposite each other. They smoke and drink without speaking. Jiggs’ eyes jitter in his skull, and an uneasy silence hums between them. Dean doesn’t know how to break it or if he even wants to. Can’t see why he should, but the way Jiggs holds himself – so tight and tense – makes him wonder if he ought to drag something out anyway. But his mind drifts out of the bar, back to the hotel, to his partner. He thinks about sitting in silence with Jerry. How it’s comfortable, easy. Not awkward like this. He finishes his scotch and rolls the glass between his hands, watching Jiggs tap and half-heartedly spin the heavy ashtray on the table.

He’s aged. Dean remembers him at eighteen, a little older maybe. Dark hair and quick, sharp eyes. Can’t be all that long, can it? He does the math, takes a little while through the smoke and the scotch. Fifteen's the number he lands on, a little wobbly. Fifteen years. _Christ_ , it feels strange. Like a day ago, and like another world, another life. A life before New York, before Hollywood. A life before four kids and two wives. Before a skinny Jewish kid who loves him. And now his old pal, looking older, older than he should. Drawn and tired and a little sad.

“You don’t have time for me anymore.”

Dean stares at him. At his bowed head, his fingers fiddling with the ashtray.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” he says, something strange and hot and heavy in his throat. “I’m right here. Whadaya want?”

Jiggs shrugs. Dean wants to wrest the ashtray from his anxious fingers and smash it on the floor. Some improvement, he thinks, not wanting to break it over his head. He does nothing. Says nothing. Stares uneasily at his old pal across a sea of empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays.

Jiggs looks up. Eyes red-rimmed. Smoke, Dean figures. Too much to drink. His mouth works. Then he bites his lip and bows his head again.

Dean hates how much it reminds him of Jerry. Hates that this isn’t Jerry. That he can’t reach out and lay a hand on his old pal’s shaking shoulder. Instead he looks away. Looks across the bar. Looks for the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. Unpleasantly Buzzed

He walks sedately back. He’s unpleasantly buzzed and wants to clear his head before bed. Before Jeannie and how she’ll turn away from the ashtray in his mouth. Doesn’t matter. Sleep’s the thing now. Sleep off this drowned feeling in his brain. The cigarette’s not helping so he pitches it. Yawns and rubs his face. Pulls his coat close around him and picks up the pace. His watch says it’s nearly two o’clock and he starts working on a way not to wake her up when he comes in. Maybe without the booze he could figure it out or try to care a little more. But the cold’s creeping down his collar and he’s losing feeling in his feet.

The hotel comes into blessed view and he hurries inside. Blows on his hands and rubs them together. Stamps his feet and heads not toward the stairs, but toward the bar, knowing what he’ll find but not exactly how he’ll find him.

His little partner slumped on a stool. Staring into space and motionless. A glass of something pink and no doubt sweet sweats on the bar. The fact he doesn’t at least glance at the door as Dean comes in is evidence enough that something isn’t right. He watches for a little while. Hands loose fists in his pockets. Then he approaches slowly. Once or twice before he’s had to wait for the kid to come back into the world. He doesn’t mind. Happy to do it, in fact. Worth it to see the light spark in his eyes after hours – days, at least once – of darkness. But something tells Dean he isn’t all that far gone just yet. Still with him, but a little faraway. So he approaches. Soft and careful. And after a pause in which he considers if this is funny or cruel (he decides it’s funny), he jabs tickling fingers into Jerry’s waist.

He yelps and leaps two feet in the air. Twisting round, enraged and embarrassed, he sets to spitting fury. Then sees it’s Dean and flushes scarlet.

“No fair!” He thumps his chest, then pouts and folds his arms. “Don’t laugh at me! Anyhow, I knew it was you.”

He nods, an _Of course you did_ expression on his face. Before Jerry can retort, Dean folds him in his arms and squeezes hard. Lifts him off the ground an inch or two. Jerry giggles contentedly and purrs against his neck.

“I guess I forgive you,” he says in his nine-year-old Voice and for a moment neither speaks. Jerry settles and stills in his arms. Lips curled in a soft smile against Dean’s throat. Then Dean lets him go and lights a cigarette. And a second, when he sees Jerry’s smouldering its last in the ashtray on the bar. They smoke. Dean leans on the wood and watches their reflections in the mirror. Watches Jerry watching him. There’s no one else here save the bartender, who’s stifling a yawn and looks as though Dean’s enthusiastic partner might have made a pretty good case for keeping the bar open after hours. A case that no doubt involved a dead president or two. He sighs and shakes his head. Very persuasive, his partner. He rests a hand on the small of Jerry’s back and feels the fog lifting further. Enough to almost admire his surroundings. Dark out and soft warm light inside, one or two tables illuminated and the others in shadow.

“We’re all right here,” the kid says to the bartender. “Can you give us a few minutes?”

He does. Accommodating, this fella. He grabs his coat from the end of the bar – Dean figures his hopes of an early night were dashed when Jerry appeared – and heads outside, lighting up as he goes.

He’s stroking absently his partner’s spine and feels him settle underneath his palm. Still watching him. Feels those eyes on him even as he stares at the smoke drifting from his cigarette.

“Did you have a nice time?” Soft. Almost careful.

“Sure,” Dean says. He turns to him now. His vision swims a little. Still woozy with scotch. He hooks an arm around Jer’s neck and pulls him close. Butts their heads together gently. Jerry chuckles.

“Miss me, bubbe?”

“Hm.” _You don’t know the half of it._ “How could I miss ya? See ya alla time.”

Jerry pouts again. “Well, I missed _you_.”

Dean laughs. “You do the missin’ for the both of us, how ’bout that?”

“All right,” he says, unconvinced. “But it was nice? Fun, I mean. With your friends?”

“Sure, it was fun,” Dean says. “Don’t I look like I had fun?”

“You sure smell like you did, boy,” Jerry says, and makes as if to get away but really doesn’t try too hard. Gives up under Dean’s weak hold and tucks himself closer.

They’re silent again. Jerry’s fiddling with Dean’s shirt. One of the buttons. Dean glances down to see it’s come loose. Can’t tell if the kid did that or if it happened before. He watches slender fingers slip it back into place then slide around his waist and hold. Loosely.

“This is it, boy,” he says, and sighs. “I always knew it would happen.”

“What’s that?” Dean asks. Not sure he wants to know. Figures he should humour Jer awhile then stumble up to bed.

“Didn’t I tell you before? Before we were partners. I always knew you’d be a big star, Dean.”

 _Dean?_ “Aw, c’mon Jer—”

“And now here we are. You got a whole day to yourself and spent the whole night away with your old pals.”

He’s joking. Kid must be joking but Dean’s head aches and his eyes throb and he wants to tell him to shut up. Wants him to stop talking. Go back to quietly undressing him so Dean can stop him. Tell him it’s not nice when he’s drunk. Easier, maybe. But not nice for either of them.

Jerry sighs. It’s over the top. Dramatic and effeminate. But he keeps his eyes down. “You don’t have time for me anymore.”

Dean opens his mouth. Not sure what he wants to say or if there’s anything he can. No words for this. Never any words for this. This joke that’s too convincing. Too well acted. What comes is like a cough. It starts at the top of his throat and reaches back. His shoulders jerk. He shocks himself to silence and then his whole face burns.

Jerry’s head snaps up. Dean can’t see him clearly. He’s fuzzy. Blurred. Dean has to push him away and move back from the bar, swiping at his eyes. Rubbing them. His hand comes away wet. “Fine,” he says. Hoarse. He clears his throat. “I’m fine.” Holds up his hands. Palms out to Jer in supplication. Or more than that. Wanting him close and far away and unable to parse either one. So he shakes his head and tries to smile at him. Wants to reassure his boy whose face is a sweet concerned blur.

“Oh, Paul.” Jerry puts his arms around him. “Paul, it’s all right. You’re all right, bubbe. What happened? Oh.” He strokes Dean’s back and Dean can’t stand it. “Whatever it is—”

“Nothing,” he says, and it’s true. It has to be. Nothing’s _happened_. Nothing that warrants this reaction anyway. “Nothin’, Jer, I’m fine.” He extricates himself and fumbles in his pockets. _Pazzo_ , he thinks. _No need for this._ He tries to force it down, back where it came from. Whatever it is, away from his eyes. Can’t find his handkerchief.

“Here.” Jerry’s hand emerges from Dean’s inside pocket and he wipes his face. Tucks the cotton into his hand. “Oh, Paul.” And reaches for him.

“Stop it, Jer, I’m fine.” And already it’s passing. He offers a small smile and pushes his partner away. Not too far. “Fine.”

Jerry watches him closely. “Paul… Did something happen? With your friends, I mean.”

( _You don’t have time for me anymore._ )

His throat closes. He coughs. Clears it. Speaks: “No. No, Jer, I’m fine.”

“All right. I believe you.” He holds his hand. Can’t meet his eyes for a moment. “You scared me a little, that’s all.”

“Aw, Jer, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” He pauses. Watches their hands, the kid’s long fingers stroking his knuckles. He wants to say he’s tired. Long day. Too much scotch, excitement. He’ll feel better once he’s slept. He wants to tell the truth. Instead, he mutters, “Upsetting myself.”

“What?” Jerry stares at him, confused and fond. The way you might look at a small child who’s hurt but can’t explain the reason for his hurting. He touches his cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Paul, you didn’t upset yourself. Something upset you. That’s different.” He squeezes Dean’s hand. “It’s all right, bubbe. You needed to cry. That’s okay.”

Dean bridles. Says nothing.

“Oy. Never shoulda come. All these goyim here upsetting my partner.”

Dean laughs. Feels good to laugh. He ruffles the kid’s hair, and Jerry beams at him. Already the balance seems restored and whatever happened feels distant, and the buzz of alcohol feels more pleasant than before. The way it _should_ feel. 

“You feel better now?”

Dean nods. Wants the conversation over with. The booze has mellowed him a little he thinks and now he wonders if it might be enough.

“See? It’s a good thing, Paul. Well, whatever made you cry – that’s not a good thing. But feeling better about it, that’s good.” He chews his bottom lip. “You wanna tell me about it?”

Dean doesn’t. But he knows what he does want, even as he knows that the stress of the day and the disconnected buzzing of the scotch is playing a part in it. Even as he knows it’s not the best way to want this, not for either of them. And he knows he perhaps doesn’t want this himself, but he wants it for his partner. For his friend who waited hours for him in a hotel bar.

What Dean wants suddenly is to be alone with him. In a room with a bed and the lights switched off. It’ll be easier there, he thinks, to tell him whatever there is to tell. Maybe he can whisper it into the dark, the way he used to with stories of Steubenville. Just another one of those, really, what happened tonight. Whisper it the way the kid does sometimes when he can’t keep it to himself anymore. It’s okay. It’s better in the dark. But Dean thinks, beneath all that, that maybe he won’t talk. Maybe Jerry won’t either. And wouldn’t that be something.

He holds Jerry’s wrist.

“Paul?” Frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“I want—” He stops himself. Has to. Can’t be sure what might come out if he runs his mouth now.

“What?” Concern flutters in his voice. “Paul, anything, what is it?”

Dean takes a breath. Two. Five. However many he needs to get it right. “Be with me tonight,” he says, and it isn’t perfect, but it’s enough. Enough for the kid’s eyes to go wide, for his mouth to drop open.

“You want I should—”

“Yes.” And he cups his cheek because it seems like the right thing to do. “ _Yes_.”

It must be right, because Jerry nods. His cheeks have gone a little pink. “I’ll – I’ll get another room. The girls, they’re already asleep, so they… we…” He swallows. “Must be another room here.” And he turns away and walks almost dazedly out to the front desk.

Dean watches him go and fishes out another cigarette. His last. He lights up and puffs. Hopes it’ll steady his hands. Hopes it’ll help make sense of whatever the fuck he’s just asked of the kid. He thinks he knows but he can’t be sure, but if he _does_ know, then he hopes the cigarette and the scotch and everything that came before will be enough to help him through this. All or nothing now, Dean thinks. 

Jerry comes back then. Smiling a little and nodding. Holding up a key. And in no time at all they’re on the third floor and letting themselves into their new room. Just like all the others. Nice enough and with a double bed made up and waiting. Jerry locks the door and flicks on the bedside lamp then turns to him. Smiles. Leans forward a little to kiss his mouth. Just once. It’s slow and soft and almost closed. Then he leans away again to look at him. _Just that_ , his eyes say. _Just that if you don’t want anything else._ And Dean doesn’t know how to tell him that it doesn’t matter what he wants. That he’s in the process of putting that to one side. Ignoring it. Just for a little while. 

Because he doesn’t want this but _Jesus_ he should and if one of them does then maybe that’s enough.

Dean touches his partner. Takes off his jacket, his tie. Opens the top of his shirt to see the beginnings of that dark coarse patch of fur. A glint of gold chain. He watches the kid’s Adam’s apple bob. He thinks he can see his pulse in his throat. Wonders what it’ll be like to hold his mouth there, to feel it on his tongue. He kisses his cheeks.

Jerry toes off his shoes and sits cross-legged on the bed. Waits for Dean to take off his shoes, his tie. Dean looks at him, so sweet and patient. He touches his face, leans down to kiss his brow. Then he lies on the bed, on his side, not looking at the kid just yet. Needs to figure it out in his head.

“I know it’s hard for you.” Jerry touches his thigh. “All those people. All that schmoozing. Everyone talking at you, wanting to see you. Look at you.”

“Hm.” He’s glad the kid came. So glad. He hopes he knows. Wants to show him how much he appreciates it. Appreciates _him_. Pushes away that niggling voice that tells him this isn’t the way.

“Can’t blame ’em,” Jerry says, trailing fingers up and down Dean’s leg. Agonizingly light. Teasing. Whether he means to or not. “Wanting to celebrate you. Of course, to me, every day’s Dean Martin Day.”

Dean snorts into the pillow. He feels the kid lie down behind him. “Little parades and fanfares in my head. Cute cheerleaders in skirts. Girls, too.”

Dean laughs. He reaches out and flicks off the bedside lamp. Wants it dark just now. Easier that way. The kid’s breath catches. Dean rolls over to face him. Knows Jerry’s done the same. It’s too dark now, so he waits. Waits. Wants to see his partner’s face. Dimly lit and relaxed. It’s so lovely like that. Dean touches it, strokes his partner’s cheek. Watches his eyelids flutter.

“Thanks for comin’, Jer.” Whispering. Letting his hand slip back to hold the nape of Jerry’s neck.

“Sure.” He smiles. A little sweet, a little sleepy. Serene. He touches Dean’s chest.

Then, somehow, they are kissing.


	3. Owing Him That Much

Jerry’s hands rest against Dean’s chest. Dean strokes the short coarse hair at the nape of Jerry’s neck. Their lips meet and part and meet again in perfect symmetrical rhythm. Not too much, not too far. Slow and easy, both grinning like idiots. Kissing. Just kissing. And Dean dimly wondering what all the fuss was about, all the waiting and worrying. For what? For this: kissing his best friend in a dark hotel room. Not worth all that fussing. It’s nice, he thinks, kissing Jerry like this. Loving him like this. The only sounds their mouths and little half-formed jokes and chuckling.

Then they stop. It just happens. In unison, like everything else. They look at each other in the dark, both a little dazed, a little breathless.

Then Jerry sighs. “That was nice.” Smiling. Trembling.

“Hm.” Dean takes his hand from Jerry’s neck and lazily tweaks the end of his nose. Jerry kisses his fingers.

“Do you… maybe wanna do it again?”

Dean chuckles softly. “Now?” Stroking Jerry’s cheek.

“Oh.” The _Yes_ screaming in his eyes. “You want we should stop?” So quiet, so calm, except the fingers playing with Dean’s shirt buttons, and the desperation Dean sees burning, scorching every inch of him. Not every inch, maybe. Not yet. But it’ll happen if they keep at it. And if his partner’s trembling is any indication, he wants to keep at it.

It must be nice, Dean thinks, to know exactly what you want.

“C’mere,” he whispers, and kisses his friend.

A little further now, a little different. Not so much smiling. Not so much hesitating. Jerry sweeps his tongue over Dean’s bottom lip and then mumbles apologies, but Dean wraps an arm around him, nudges their noses together and kisses him. Kisses him. Kisses his partner. And Jerry sliding fingers into his curls, tangling, tugging gently, angling his head to deepen the kiss. Their legs slotted together, but their hips still apart. Not for lack of trying, and Dean stops kissing long enough to ask gently why Jerry’s so far away.

“Oh.” Flushing. Dean runs a thumb along his bottom lip. “’M in a bit of a situation, Paul.”

There it is. And this is the part where Dean stops him. Tells him that’s all now, that’s enough. Sends him away for the hundredth time. Dean thinks about all the times they’ve stopped. Thinks about the kid so young and sad and loving him so much. Having to take a minute or two to get himself together, or maybe having to shut himself in the bathroom to finish. Maybe even going away to find a girl – or not a girl – just to make sure. To make sure Dean would still be his friend after.

Christ but it breaks his heart. _He_ breaks his heart. Looking at him like that. How can he still be so worried? How can’t he _know_? Why can’t he be sure? _My fault_ , Dean thinks. _I never helped him be sure._ Sure that this is all right. Sure that Dean wants more than anything for him to be happy. Even if he can’t be sure himself that this is the way to do it. Even if he’ll have to keep shoving away the little voice telling him to stop.

“Jer.”

“If you don’t want—”

He pulls him gently closer.

“ _Paul_.”

“Lemme help a little.” Not thinking. Knowing that thinking will put an end to this. Just wanting to get back to kissing him, Dean unbuckles Jerry’s belt and unbuttons, unzips his pants. Jerry gasps and shudders.

“All right, Jer?”

“Mm.” Biting his lip.

“Okay.” And then, just to be sure: “Want me to kiss you again?”

Nodding, wrapping arms around his neck, sweet little tasting kisses on his mouth. Literal sweetness, on top of how lovely it is; his last Shirley Temple lingers on his tongue. Dean chuckles, head full of his partner, and parts his full lips. The little voice in his head is almost silent now, and he forces himself to focus on those lips, that tongue, those fingers in his hair. How he can feel Jerry pressing into his stomach. All of this, he knows, should be enough. All of this should make him realise that his little friend should be the exception to the rule. His little whimpers shuddering against Dean’s lips enough persuasion. His fingertips brush the base of Dean’s skull and send sweet little pinwheeling stars behind his eyes. Dean moans low in his throat and rolls forward, just a little, just enough to free his left arm and use both hands to work on Jerry’s shirt buttons. He tries to move back where he was, but Jerry holds him, guides him closer, wants him nearer, whispers _Please_ and _Yes_ and _Here_ and other words that thrill and frighten him in equal measure. Dean’s almost fully on top of him now. He pulls gently at his partner’s undershirt to feel the warm skin beneath, that fine trail of hair leading south. Jerry’s blissful sigh shudders through them both. Dean leaves his mouth, almost goes back when Jerry whimpers for him, but wants to kiss his jaw, his throat. His little partner breathes his name and moves his hips, and Dean finally finds out how it feels to have his partner’s pulse on his tongue. To hold that part of him in his mouth. Something warm and vital. Vulnerable.

He takes his mouth away. Away from the vague distress of that thought. He finds his partner’s tongue again. Dean realises that they’ve begun to move against each other, slowly. Figuring it out. But Dean’s not there yet. Not where Jerry is. Not so far along that this would be a good idea, maybe. So he stops kissing him and leans back. Jerry follows, briefly, then puts his head on the pillow. His chest heaves. His lips glisten faintly in the dim light. Dean is aware of slender fingers on his belt and can’t remember when they got there.

“ _Dino_ ,” he whispers and tries to say more but there's nothing left.

Dean strokes his hair, his brow. He’s hot and cold, a little shiny, slick with sweat. His hands move; he slips his arms around Dean’s waist and holds him loosely, looking up at him like he’s hung the stars in the sky. Like he’s _made_ of stars and moons and planets and it makes Dean feel like crying again but he doesn’t. He won’t. He’s too busy looking at the beautiful boy beneath him. Upsetting himself would only make him blurry, like a dream, and right now Dean needs him to be real, concrete. Touchable. So he can go on touching him as long as the kid wants him to. But right now, he wants to look. Just look and feel his friend’s hands on the small of his back, holding him gently in place, their hips together.

Dean thinks, after a minute or two of listening to his friend’s sweet-scary panting in the dim light, that if he keeps looking at him, he won’t ever be able to stop looking. And he didn’t come here just to look. Did he? Maybe he did. If he feels so good just looking that he might easily go on like this for the rest of the night. Nothing more. No more touching or kissing. Just holding him and looking at the desperate love and adoration – hero-worship, almost – etched on his young face.

Carefully, he rolls away, on to his back, to lie beside his partner.

They breathe together for a moment. Their hands are sweaty and shaking but find each other anyway. Hold on tight. Dean can feel Jerry’s eyes on him but can’t look just yet. 

Then the bedsprings creak. Sheets and clothes rustle. Jerry’s free hand finds him. “Lemme do for you, Paul,” he whispers. Dean thinks he feels himself twitch under the kid’s fingers.

Dean closes his eyes. He wants the kid to do it. Hopes he’ll take the hint and start. Hopes he won’t have to say it, but no. Of course not. He’s waiting. Has to know. Wants permission.

_Christ, Dino, how did you get here?_

“Jer.”

“Yeah?”

“I…” _…don’t want you to do that._ “You don’t have to do that.” Breath hitching.

“I know.” He shuffles closer still and kisses his cheek. Keeps his hand where it is. “I wanna do it.”

Dean shakes his head. His words are going again. He thinks he lost them somewhere in the kid’s mouth, and turns his head to try again, to try to find them. Jerry moans around his tongue and starts to stroke. It’s soft and careful. The kid’s deft fingers trace him through the fabric. Dean can feel himself hardening. Slowly. It’s an agonizing feeling. Like waiting for rain in a drought. He wants to be where Jerry is. Where he’s been for the last – how long now? How long has the kid been ready? Not just tonight. _Don’t say eight years_ , he thinks. _Don’t say that or I’ll scream._ Since they got to the room, then. Maybe since Dean told him he wanted to be with him tonight. An hour, maybe. Dean can’t keep track of time. An hour, maybe two. Let’s say that. That’s better than that other thing. Better than the truth.

The truth now, though. The reality of this long, strange day: Jerry has his tongue in Dean’s mouth; he’s stroking him delicately, patiently, lovingly through his pants; and he’s pushing into his hip. Waiting for him. Wanting him. And Dean?

Dean stops kissing him. He reaches out and, with an aching kick of his heart, flicks on the bedside lamp. The kid squints but keeps his eyes on Dean. His hand has stopped, and now it goes away. But his other hand keeps hold of Dean’s, and he smiles sweetly despite the sudden brightness. Despite everything. He tucks his legs beneath him and says simply, “You didn’t like it.”

Dean hopes he looks as sorry as he feels.

“Can we…” And the realisation there. He knew already of course. But Jerry understanding that maybe there can’t be a _we_ in this. Not this part. Everything else but not this. Dean remembers how it was before. How Jerry’s eyes bugged out of his head. _You’re staying?_ he asked. Incredulous. _You know there’s_ girls _out there, right?_ And Dean chuckling and shaking his head and telling him to have fun. Falling asleep in front of the TV or slumped over the latest Action Comics. And waking up sometimes with his partner’s fingers in his hair. A soft smile. _Looks like you had more fun than I did._ And Dean crawling sleepily to bed with him. Repeating this as many times as Jerry needed it until it got too hard. Too much. And forcing something out. Owing him that much, at least. _That’s how you are, Jer. I think I’m the opposite._

Now, Jerry asks, "Can I maybe try something else?”

Dean shifts position to sit with his back against the headboard. Still holding the kid’s hand. Stroking it now. And now his other hand touching his waist beneath the shirt that hangs open. Jerry shivers and sighs, lets Dean run his hand over his chest, down one arm, his hip, his thigh, and back again, up, up, to the nape of his neck. Jerry’s head tips back, eyelids fluttering. A sweet little sigh slipping from his mouth. And Dean glances south. Curious. Jerry’s erection, barely contained by his shorts, pokes out through his open slacks. Dean thinks there’s a dark patch on the cotton but can’t be sure. Says nothing. Must be a trick of the light.

It would be so easy. To reach out and touch him. To hold him flush against his body and work on him. He imagines the kid’s gasp, his moans muffled in Dean’s neck. He can picture the shuddering jerk of his hips. And then looking at him. Tears hanging on his long lashes. Maybe a sad little apology after, just in case. Dean would hush that quick. Reassure it. He thinks maybe Jerry wouldn’t last very long, and that breaks the spell. Thinking of him so overwhelmed and young and desperate that barely any contact might tip him over the edge.

Finally, he looks at Jerry’s face. His swollen mouth, shining eyes, scarlet cheeks. The kid’s looking at him now, dazed and lovely and not a bit upset. The furthest from how Dean thought he’d look. The furthest from how Dean feels looking at him now.

“I don’t mind, Paul.” And it’s true; he doesn’t. That’s the awful thing. Dean thinks he would prefer Jerry to be disappointed. To be mad. To beg. To say he’d be a good boy, _Lemme be good for you Paul please lemme do for you whatever you want I’ll do anything I’ll be good._ That might make more sense. But he seems so content despite this mess. “If it’s too much, I won’t do it.” And then, a Voice creeping in: “No touching, just smooching.”

Dean laughs and covers his face. “What is this, _smooching_? Call it necking, make it sound real grown-up.”

Jerry hugs him. His lips brush Dean’s ear: “I’m sorry I got carried away.”

Dean wants him to get carried away. _You just carry me right with you._ Make it easier for both of them. Take what he wants and let Dean give it. But the scotch and the stress and the sweet concern of his friend’s arms around him are wearing off, and the vulgar truth of his not wanting him takes their place.

“Jer.”

“Yeah?” The kid leans back to look at him. To smile at him.

Dean studies his friend’s honest, lovely face and thinks of all the things he wishes he could say. Some of them he can’t even begin to parse. They’re just ideas, ideas of ideas, so hard to understand. And even when he’s able to make some sense of them, they stick in his throat. But some of it, some of what he feels solidifies, forms words that sound pretty good, and keeping them in his mind, he kisses Jerry for another minute.

The kid moans as their lips part. He’s touching himself through his shorts. Dean thinks he wouldn’t mind if the kid took himself out and finished here. “Paul, I—”

“Bathroom,” he says. Sending him away again.

“Huh?” Gazing at his mouth. Hands resting half-curled on Dean’s hips, too dazed to hold on.

“Go use the bathroom, Jer.” He strokes lightly the nape of his neck. “Be a good boy, go on.”

Jerry nods and leans his head a little woozily on Dean’s shoulder, nuzzles his neck for a moment and comes back to his mouth, lets the tip of his tongue brush over Dean’s lips and then, with a keening sound that seems only half-feigned, shuffles to the bathroom and shuts himself inside. Water runs.

While he waits, Dean strokes himself lazily. He’s about half mast, wondering dimly why he can’t commit to this. He holds all these good things in his mind: the kid’s tongue in his mouth; fingers in his hair; sweet little whimpers on his lips. And the slightest thing, the lightest touch in return pushing him practically over the edge. It’s impossible, Dean thinks, _not_ to want someone who wants you that badly. Someone who’s ready. Always ready for him, and Dean… what? Dean thinking he had this figured out. Thinking it didn’t always make sense but he’d dealt with it, so what else is there? Jerry. Jerry’s the _what else_ , of course. But even still, it shouldn’t be this hard. How can he want this with Jerry, want him close – closer than he’s ever wanted anyone – and not want what comes next?

He covers his eyes. There’s the rub. What’s _next_ , exactly? 

_I’d be the girl_ , the kid said once, late at night or very early in the morning, voice slurred with sleep, mouth slightly warm and slightly wet against his shoulder, _if you want me to._ And the idea of that was so awful, so wrong. _You’re not a girl, Jer._ A yawn. An evasive hesitation. _Mm. You know what I mean._

Far from that. The furthest thing from that. And in the second he recalls that terrible declaration, Dean’s languid arousal is gone. Forgotten. Almost. A whispering warmth in his stomach, shivering delicately up his spine. Then away, somewhere, hidden until next time.

 _Next time?_ He smiles. Almost rueful but resigned. Thinks about his friend hugging him gently downstairs. Letting him cry. _Next time._

Jerry comes back then. He sees Dean smiling and grins at him. “Cold here, boy,” he says, pulling back the covers. “Get under with me.”

So they undress, and Dean flicks off the light. They slip under the sheets, both a little shivery, and the kid turns on to his side, so Dean can tuck him close and hold him. Again, that vague wonder that he fits so well against Dean’s body. The kid takes his hand, plays sleepily with the fingers, before linking them, squeezing. Dean kisses the back of his head, his neck. Jerry sighs and shudders, but he isn’t cold anymore.

“Feel better, Paul?”

And it takes him a second to think what the kid means. But then that sound he made and the tears spilling over come back. Jiggs’ bowed head. That fucking ashtray.

“I’m all right, Jer.”

Jerry nods. Yawns. He snuggles down, wriggles closer if it’s even possible, and then, just as it seems he’s fallen asleep, he whispers, “Oh, I forgot to say.”

“What’s that?” Knowing the answer.

“I love you.”

“Ah.” Dean laughs a little. Wants to cry a little. “I know, Jer.”

The kid drifts away and, listening to his content little snuffling snores, Dean has a strange thought. Strange and a little scary. Intrusive. He wonders if other men hold Jerry. After. If they let him fall asleep in their arms. He tries to picture it and can’t. Won’t. Dean’s not even sure Jerry’s been so far with a fella to end up asleep in his bed. He knows if he asks, Jerry will tell him, but Christ, he doesn’t want to think about it. Not now.

He buries his face in the pillow and pulls his friend closer. As he falls asleep, Dean prays that Jerry goes with fellas who are kind, and who can give him what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so. Dean's on the asexual spectrum. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules. Except I very much do. Am I Projecting™? Perhaps. But what is fiction if not projection?
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! <3


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